May 25, 2006

Jimmy winces in pain as he shifts again trying to get comfortable.

The bullet hole I put in his left bicep is still oozing.

It’s disgusting. Even his blood doesn’t look right. Oily. And the fish-market stench is getting unbearable.

At least he’s stopped crying.

He’s looking at my face. I can see him staring at my eye patch.

I’ve been out of intensive care for only a month and I’m still trying to get used to having only one eye.

I look at my watch.

“Time’s ticking,” I remind him.

He takes a deep, shuddering breath and continues. “I wasn’t feeling too good, you know, so I left early. Drove straight through the night from Maine. I stopped at the flower shop to get her some flowers.”

I tune him out.

First job back in the field and what do I get? Some depressed bible salesman that comes home from a road trip to Maine early; catches his wife in bed with her fuck buddy and flies into a rage, killing them both.

Pretty typical domestic violence shit. Normally this type of case is not our concern. If the killer wasn’t some sort of freak squid-boy, we wouldn’t even hear about it.

And now I’m stuck here in some flea ridden motel (that stinks like dirty Cooch) off the I-75 on some back road in butt-fuck West Virginia.

I really have to take a piss.

I look at the bathroom door, considering it.

No. I don’t trust him. As soon as I turn my back he is going to try something stupid.

He licks his rubbery lips and continues his sob story.

“I knew. When I pulled up the driveway, you know, it’s like something in the back of my mind knew what I was going to find. Like some sort of sixth sense.”

I walk over to the window and peek outside.

Nothing.

I guess no one heard the gunshot. Either there is no one else here or the walls are thick enough, or no one gives a shit.

Whichever it is, works for me.

I really, really need to piss.

“I could see the blood leaking out of their noses. I didn’t know I was that strong. I had one hand on each. My fingers were wrapped around their necks, like rope, squeezing… squeezing. He was fighting back. Kicking. Hard. But I didn’t even feel the hits.”

He suddenly looks panicked.

“I don’t what happened. Please. I didn’t mean to do it. I need help!”

He glances at my gun.

“I don’t want to die.”

I look at his arms. The skin has taken on a translucent quality. I can see the bones and muscles and the spaghetti highway of blue veins just below the surface.

Seams along the skin ripple and flex.

Earlier, when he opened the door and I shot him, I watched them peel apart. Both arms split into five tentacles (complete with suckers) right up to his elbows, flailing spastically as he staggered back under the force of the point-blank shot.

With a quick look, no one would be able to tell. But under even the slightest scrutiny, the deformity is evident.

It takes me a few moments to register that Jimmy stopped talking.

I look at him. He’s just staring at me. His eyes have gotten larger. The whites are shot through with vapors of black. In time they’re going to turn completely jet.

“You don’t even care, do you?” He says.

It’s a statement, more than a question. But he’s right.

I lean forward in my chair and look at his eyes. There’s still enough humanity in them for me to see into his soul. He stares back. His eyes flick back and forth between my good eye and the ivory-colored patch over my empty left socket.

Years of mistrust have honed my bullshit-detector into the perfect polygraph machine.

I can tell when someone is lying. There are tells, but I have no idea what those are.

I don’t know if it’s when someone looks to the right or to the left when they are telling you a story, that it means that they are being mendacious.

All I know is that when I look at someone, my gut feeling about them is usually right.

I nod.

He’s telling the truth.

I check my watch again. I think I’m safe. If someone had called the cops, they would have been here by now.

My bladder is about to explode.

I stand up and step over to Jimmy. His lip is quivering as he tries to push himself deeper into the corner, as far away from me as possible.
I aim my gun at his head.

“I’M TELLING YOU THE TRUTH!” Jimmy shouts.

His voice gurgles like his throat is filling with water.

“I know.”

BANG.

His head doesn’t explode. It deflates. Whatever transformation he is going through seems to have softened up his bones.

Blood and goo splatter up the bad paisley-patterned wallpaper.

His body slumps into the wet carpet beneath him.

Finally.

I holster my revolver and run to the washroom.

Ahh. Relief.

I piss like a race horse.

The file was clear; termination of subject is mandatory. Generally speaking, all case files usually end up with me killing the target.

This is an unwritten rule, or rather, an understanding.

But when the file folder is stamped with the word EXPEDITE in red, upper case, sans-serif, stencil type font, this understanding is non-negotiable.

I wash my hands and dry them on the gaudy purple towel. I look at the Jimmy-mess as I walk to the door. It looks like his body is still going through its metamorphosis. By the time the maid service finds him, he’ll be completely unrecognizable as human.

Undoubtedly there will be questions as to what sort of weirdo would dress a squid in a pair of slacks and a wife-beater and then shoot it in the head.

Since that isn’t really a crime in West Virginia, no one is going to report it.

Pulling the curtains open just enough to look out the window, I check the parking lot.

Coast is clear.

I close the curtain and the room darkens. I step out and shut the door behind me, locking it with Jimmy’s room key.

I toss them into some scrub next to my car.